"Baseball."

She nodded, processing.

"San Diego Padres," I added. "Star pitcher."

Her eyes narrowed as if suspecting me of feeding her false information. Then she lowered herself onto the bench beside a statue of a nymph that, apparently in keeping with Hollywood standards, had undergone a boob job. I glanced at the statue. Angelique followed my gaze, let out a squeak and vacated the bench, lest she be photographed under it. Not inconceivable-the cameraman was prowling the garden, getting his setup shots.

"Maybe you can give me some advice, Jaime. I know- Well, I get the impression you don't like me very much-"

"Then you're getting the wrong one, hon. I'm always thrilled to see a new star in the making. Plenty of room for all of us."

She lifted limpid eyes to mine. "Really? Lord, you don't know what that means to me. I've idolized you my whole life, waiting for this moment, hoping you'd still be around-"

"So you wanted to ask…?"

A quick glance toward the others. "Your advice. I just don't think it's fair, picking seances with these people that I've barely even heard of. It's… what's the word? Ageist."

"Ageist?" I tried not to laugh. Tried even harder not to remind her she was supposed to be getting her stories from the dead, not from memories of past events. "I suppose it is."

"I think Becky has me scheduled to go first, and I was wondering whether there was any way you might…"

"Switch spots with you? Be happy to."

"Really? Oh, gosh, that's so sweet of you. So you'll go first and I'll take the last place, which is hard, but I think I can manage-"

Becky approached, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, Angelique, but the positions are set. Jaime goes last."

"I thought Mr. Grady had the last spot." Claudia hurried over. "What's this? Another change?"

I raised my hands. "I don't know what order we're supposed to go in, but I'll take whatever works for you two. First, second, last, your choice."

"No, Jaime, I'm afraid it isn't," Becky said. "You're scheduled last. I can't change that."

As she spoke, she shot nervous glances at me. Had I been the other two, I'd have interpreted those glances to mean Becky was indeed fol-lowing orders: my orders. Protest, and I'd sound like a two-faced poseur. Take Becky aside and I'd confirm suspicions of collusion.

Damn it, I didn't need this. It was hard enough doing this silly seance, when all I could think about was those child ghosts. It took all I had not to say "screw it" and walk away from the whole thing. Screw the show. Screw my future in television. I had more important things to do-things I'd rather be doing.

I forced my attention back on task. As Claudia harassed Becky, and Angelique made pointed comments about special treatment, I noticed the cameraman, ten feet away, filming the spat.

"Becky," I murmured.

"I'm sorry, Claudia, but the positioning has been set-"

I coughed, and nudged Becky toward the cameraman.

She glanced his way, then continued. "If Mr. Grady has a problem with this shoot, then I'd suggest he go ahead and contact Mr. Simon because…"

I excused myself and walked away.

THE SEANCE did not go well. Suspecting that my information was false, Angelique called Gabrielle's husband a soccer player, then started talking about bullet holes, when the woman had been stabbed. Seeing her failure on Becky's face, she tried to salvage the seance with boring personal details-Gabrielle remembered her mother brushing her hair, Gabrielle liked to walk in bare feet, Gabrielle liked puppies-the sorts of things impossible to confirm or deny.

On to Grady, who probably vaguely remembered the case, but not -well enough to chance it, so he found a Spanish conquistador who'd stumbled on an evil pagan cult and claimed this ghost was so strong he blocked Gabrielle.

Then it was my turn. Becky could scarcely control her excitement. By placing me last, she'd given me the prime spot for using the details she'd provided.

I pulled my nonprescription glasses from my purse, and adjusted my hair from semipinned to a neater do-less sexy, more scholarly. Then I had them film me sitting under the double-D nymph, as I gravely explained the "challenges" of this seance.

The geographic connection was tenuous at best, which likely explained why no one could contact Gabrielle. Even had we been on the very site of her murder, I doubted our results would have been much better, given the trauma of her passing. While we'd hoped to help lessen her burden by sharing her story with the world, we had to accept that she wasn't yet ready to do that for herself. Perhaps someday, the world would know the truth behind her tragic passing. Cut.

"WHAT THE hell was that?" Becky said as I checked my cell phone for messages from Jeremy.

I closed the phone. "What's wrong?"

"You didn't contact Gabrielle Langdon, that's what's wrong." I sighed. "It's the location. I could have worked it harder, but after Tansy Lane, I thought it best if I didn't try to show up the others." I returned my phone to my purse, took out a pen, then stopped, staring at it. "Oh, my god. I'm such a ditz. That release you wanted me to sign. I forgot all about it. I'm so sorry. After you left, I got a call and walked out without grabbing that folder. I'll do that as soon as I get back to the house."

"No," she said, words clipped. "That won't be necessary." I asked if she minded if I walked back to the house while she finished up. She waved what I took for a 'yes' and strode back to the set.

THE STREET was empty. The houses, pushed back from the road, peeked out from curtains of trees and evergreens. The rumble of the distant highway was only white noise. Even the lawn crew I passed worked in silence as they clipped bushes into submission. Across the road, a pool-cleaning truck idled in a drive, the fumes harsh against the smell of fresh-cut grass.

There was nothing to see, nothing to listen to, nothing to distract me from burrowing deep in my thoughts and staying there. I wanted to say "to hell with this shoot" and walk off before it got worse, but I'd earned my own TV show and I was damned well going to get it.

A throat cleared behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of a blond woman.

"Nice to see someone walking," she said as she fell into step beside me. "Around here, people drive to the corner store."

I nodded, torn between wanting to be polite and wanting to be left alone. We continued on, the woman staying beside me in silence.

"I hope I'm going the right way," I said finally.

"You are. Just another block and a half."

"Oh?" I glanced at her. "How-? Ah, there's not likely to be more than one TV special filming in Brentwood right now, is there? We're probably the subject of much discussion."

A small laugh. "Probably. But that's not why… I mean, that's not how I know…"

The sentence trailed off. I took a better look at her. Any other time, I'd have pegged her as a stereotypical Hollywood housewife, but considering where I'd just been and what I'd been doing, I recognized her.

I stopped walking. "Gabrielle, I didn't- Yes, they were calling you, but I didn't-"

"I know. Better keep walking. Bad enough you're talking to yourself. You don't want to be caught doing it in the middle of the road."

I resumed walking, my heart thumping. I pulled out my cell phone-an invention that made "talking to myself" much more socially acceptable. "I'm sorry. I'm so-"

"-sorry. But you shouldn't be. Like you said, you didn't call me. Some of us have been… catching your show, so to speak."

I glanced around, imagining ghosts, hidden on the other side of the veil, watching me, waiting for an excuse to make contact and ask for help I couldn't give.